


The Open Road, It Ain't My Home

by 1307



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, tagging as i go as always because i am lazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4864235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1307/pseuds/1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick Grimes has been been framed for murder, so he does what every logical person does--he runs. Along the way he finds Daryl Dixon in a sleazy motel and Daryl teaches him the way of the outlaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One--Bowling Green, Kentucky

**Author's Note:**

> my first Rickyl {technically}! i can't believe it's taken me this long to write dude on dude in this fandom. I'm amazed at myself, truthfully.   
> Anyway, inspiration (and work title) from Meg & Dia's _Bandits_.

  
[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=20tkoec)  


Rick pulls into the motel just after eight, the sky above Kentucky already getting dark. He carefully looks around before getting out of his car and locking it tight. There are a couple interesting people out on the balconies above the office, he can see the bright orange at the end of their cigarettes better than he can see their outlines in the hazy lights between every third door. 

With a sigh he pulls the glass door open and is met with a blast of cold air, immediately he regrets not grabbing his jacket from the front seat, but it’s the middle of September, why would the air conditioning be on. He shakes his head and watches the guy in front of him in line talking to the lady behind the bullet proof glass, her curly, blonde beehive of a hairdo nearly hitting the water stained ceiling. The man’s dog is wandering around the lobby, its ratty leash trailing behind it as it came over and started to sniff Rick’s shoes. He lightly moves his leg, hoping the dog takes a hint, which it doesn’t. “Go away.” He mumbles under his breath, nudging it back to its owner. The lady behind the counter looks over at him, a scowl on her face. “Checking in?”

Rick nods. “One night.”

The man picks his dog’s leash handle off the floor and heads out, giving Rick a dirty look as he leaves. Rick doesn’t really care, now this guy and his stupid dog are gone, he can finally try to get a room.

She slides a form towards him, her long finger nails pointing to the name box. “Fill this out.”

He picks the pen up from the cup, the chain deterring it from getting stolen making it hard to write as he fills in his information. 

_Name:_ Logan Davidson  
_Address:_ 532 Mulberry Lane Apt. 4. Atlanta, GA, 30312  
_Phone no.:_ 404-555-3456  
_No. of rooms:_ 1 _No. of beds:_ 1  
_Duration of stay:_ 9/20-9/21  
_Have you stayed with us before:_ No

He puts the pen back and slides the card back to _Jane_ who then starts to type his information into the computer. He hopes with his whole body that computer program can’t detect lies. There’s a cheery ding and she grabs an old fashion key from the wall behind her. Room seventeen. “That’ll be $45.50, cash or credit?”

“Cash.” Rick states almost too excitedly, fishing out the three crumbled twenties from his front pocket, not wanting to draw attention to the other cash he had on his person and hidden in his car. 

“You better not be on drugs.” She warns him, pressing keys on her computer with those disgusting nails. “I’ll call the police on your redneck ass so quick your head will spin.”

“No drugs, ma’am. Just excited to get some sleep. Long day.” 

She hands his change back, which Rick quickly goes over in his head, two fives, four ones, and two quarters. “Where’s your snack machine?” He asks, trying to keep from thinking he was a creep. 

She sighs and slides him his room key. “Your room is halfway down to the exit driveway on the right side. There’s an entrance to the pool three doors up, they’re right there.” 

“Thanks.” He smiles and hightails it out of there before he says something to give himself away. 

-=-

The room is small and about as basic as you can get. The bed is against the wall with an older TV on a dresser that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in ages across from it, beside it is a little cart with the smallest mini fridge he’s ever seen on the bottom shelf, and a small microwave on the top. Across from the door in the room is the door to the open bathroom door, the mirror right in front of him. He can see himself its in dark reflection and he doesn’t like it. He sets his bag down on dresser and walks over to the bed, pushing down on the mattress, it’s hard as a rock, before checking the corner of the mattress for any freeloading friends that may decide he tastes good in the middle of the night. Thankfully, and shockingly, it’s clear. 

He plops on the bed with a sigh, looking up at the similarly stained ceiling that he saw in the front office. He had so much to do before he could let his tired eyes close. Recount his money, dye his hair, attempt to eat something. He was so scared, terrified. A day ago an old friend from his former place of employment, the King County’s Sheriff Department, called him and filled him in on what little information he could. Rick was being framed for the murder of Pete Gardner, some hotshot lawyer from Atlanta that Rick had only talked to on the phone twice when it related to a case. He’d never even been to his office. But according to Leon, evidence was stacking against him, he was looking at Death Row with how brutal the murder was along with breaking and entering. So logically, Rick ran. Bowling Green wasn’t his ideal first stop, but it sure beat staying anywhere near Georgia. 

_Fuck, Max. Harder!_ The whack of the headboard in the room next to him smacking against the wall made him sit up, recollect his thoughts. _Holy shit! Max!_ The in the next room sure had no problems with being himself, maybe Kentucky wasn’t that bad, after all.


	2. Day One--Bowling Green, Kentucky

  
[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=20tkoec)  


Rick orders a pizza from a small joint that’s listed on a laminated piece of paper next to the remote on the bedside table before cracking open a bottle of Jack Daniels and opening that box of hair dye he bought at the store. Apparently the color was called _sweet cola_ and he decided that that was exactly the look he was going for when he was standing under the bright florescent lights of the Walmart he found halfway into Tennessee. His beard was already grown out quite a bit, thanks to his post job-and-divorce-and-custody-agreement-and-wife-getting-remarried hermit lifestyle where he sat in his studio apartment writing books about this very thing, a man changing his identity when his wife leaves him because he _refuses_ to argue with her. Totally not inspired by events that hit so close to home they’re basically sleeping on the pullout couch. Maybe when all this is over he can write a memoir and be interviewed by Oprah. 

He’s so tired that after his shower that he doesn’t even try to scrub the small patches of _sweet cola_ that have taken up residence on his forehead and cheek. He shuffles to the door, realizing his pizza should hopefully be arriving shortly, if they heard him right. His twangy deep south accent might have made the faux southerners from Kentucky misunderstand the ‘room seventeen’ he had to repeat four times to ‘room seventy three’ or something even stupider like ‘room twelve’, he wasn’t holding his breath for the under forty-five minute time frame they gave him. 

Rick cracks the door and steps out onto the cold, concrete slab outside the rooms, a makeshift walkway with a corrugated iron roof that was to keep out snow and rain. He immediately regrets not grabbing his shoes before coming out here, instead he’s standing in his socks watching the cars on the busy street through the tree line. 

The door to room eighteen opens from beside him, maybe he’ll get to see this mysterious Max that fucks so good he slams the headboard violently against paper thin wall. It closes shortly after, then there’s the discernable hiss of a lighter from beside him. Rick looks over, careful not to turn his whole body. There’s a small chuckle from next to him as the guy walks towards the pole holding the roof up. “Forget your shoes?” He asks, turning to lean against the white pole, it’s chipping paint revealing rust. 

“They’re inside.” Rick responds, looking at him. His brown, shaggy hair covering his face, dripping with sweat and probably grease or some other bodily substance. He’s shirtless, with only a black leather vest on with his plaid pajama pants, his boots untied like they’ve just been slipped on. 

A small smirk comes on the man’s face, looking him up and down. “Name’s Daryl.” 

“Logan.” Rick replies. 

“Logan.” Daryl repeats before letting out another chuckle. “You been on the run long, _Logan_?”

“Not on the run.” 

Another chuckle. “Only people who dye their hair in interstate motels are people on the run. You still got that shit all over your face.” 

Was it really that obvious? Rick sighs. “Nope.” 

“Figured as much.” Daryl hops off the concrete slab and saunters over to Rick’s 2012 Chevy Malibu, looking it up and down, peeking in the windows, making Rick very uncomfortable. “Georgia, huh?” 

Rick nods. 

“Don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to keep this car while you’re running.”

“Told you I’m not running.” 

“Right.” Daryl rolls his eyes. “Know a guy who can take this in on a trade, get you a less conspicuous car, if you’re nice he might just throw in a license plate that matches.” 

Rick hadn’t thought about that. When the APB went out on his car, they’d be able to find him in a heartbeat. He stays quiet, not sure if he should trust this guy. 

“I’ll take you there tomorrow, if you want.” Daryl offers. “Should be up by 10.” 

“I’m leaving tomorrow, thanks though.” 

“Fine. Get caught.” Daryl shrugs, stepping back up on the concrete slab. “What’re you even runnin’ from? Don’t wanna pay child support? Got a girl pregnant you wasn’t supposed to?” He drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps it. 

“No, not that.”

Daryl goes to open his mouth but is interrupted by the door opening. Rick looks over to see a guy standing there with nothing but a pair of cut up jeans, leaning on the door, his lips in a small pout, his blonde hair poking around all over the place, his green eyes catching a small bit of the shitty light between the two doors. “ _Max_.” He whines. Rick raises his eyebrow. “Are you coming back?” 

“I told you not to come out here.” Daryl or _Max_ warns him.

“But you said you’d be five minutes and it’s been like…more than that.” 

“Go back inside.” 

The boy sighs and stands up straight, closing the door with a slam. 

“Thought your name was Daryl.”

“It is.”

“He called you Max.”

“You ain’t the only one runnin’, _Logan_.” 

Rick nods, watching as a car pulls closer to their rooms, a light up triangle with the pizza place’s phone number on top. “We’ll meet out here at 10:30?”

The smirk returns to Daryl’s face. “10:30, he’ll be gone by then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o0oo daryl on the run, too


End file.
